Wintergarden
by Taras V
Summary: What follow are fragments.  Happy things, sometimes. Various Russia/Lithuania drabble, spanning many years and many different stages of their relationship. Non Chronological.
1. A Good Heart

**A Good Heart**

"Toris,"

"Hmm?"

"Can you make this sign with your thumb and your forefinger, like a letter 's'?"

Lithuania looked confused. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"I am surprised at you, Toris," Russia chuckled playfully. "Have you forgotten your Cyrillic already?"

Lithuania made a face. "It's not my fault your 's' looks like a 'c'..." Nevertheless, he conceded, and elevated his hand for the other's approval. "Like this?"

"_Da_," Russia nodded. "_A tyeper_..." He copied the motion, and pressed his fingers to Lithuania's, to form something of a little frame through which they could see the window, and the half moon rising over a colorful city skyline. "What does that look like to you?"

Um. Well. Saint Petersburg.."

"Our hands, Toris..."

"A heart." Toris laughed softly. "A... rather lopsided heart." he added, noting with vast disparity in size.

"But it is a good heart?"

"Yes," Lithuania smiled. "It is a very good heart."


	2. Home

**Home**

Toris's home is so small by comparison- the furniture plain and comfortable and meticulously arranged. Here, the ceilings and doorframes make Ivan fully aware of his height.

Russia steps warily like a kitten surveying new territory, careful not to trip over anything. God forbid he should break something the very first time Lithuania actually invites him into the house. Everything seems so much smaller than it does in his own house, so very different. The fireplace is too clean to have been used recently. The mantle is crammed with photographs- of black and white, of colors of varying quality: spanning two or three centuries now.

Here, in faded sepia tones he sees Lithuania with the other two Baltics, looking solemn and stiff in their military greatcoats. The picture is dated _1887_: _Tsarskoe._

There is a separate, recent picture of Latvia with his quavering grin, and one of Estonia, looking nonplussed. Beside these; a mugshot of Poland, blowing a kiss at the camera, all dimples and charm.

Nearby, a shot of Lithuania and Poland together at what looks like a historical reenactment or a renaissance faire, laughing their heads off. _2008_.

There are more, many more, (mostly of Poland) but here and there he spots other familiar faces: America flashing a pearly white smile and a thumbs up- that ham. Ukraine; smiling shyly with pitchfork in hand. A blur that vaguely resembles Belarus shoving the camera away.

They are haphazard, these shots; no chronology, no regard for aesthetic arrangement where the display is concerned. It is as if they are all equally precious to Lithuania, these memories, and he doesn't care who knows it. His sleeve brushes something and he hears a light flutter. A photograph lies on the carpet and he bends over, picking it up.

It is a hazy old polaroid of Lithuania standing in front of his house. He is grinning elatedly, flying his tricolor flag. At the bottom, in his by-now familiar scrawl:

_Freedom._

_ 1991_.


	3. Repentant

**A/N: A story that is likely to be expanded. Much to Lithuania's surprise, Russia agreed to attend church with him. This is what follows.**

**Repentant**

"What were you praying for?" Lithuania asked curiously. "I mean, if it isn't too personal..."

Russia gave him a thin little smile. "I do not pray, Toris."

_Then what?_ Lithuania wondered. He knew he hadn't simply imagined it- the glimpse out of the corner of his eye- of Russia- with his head bowed and his hands folded tightly across his lap during the Litany of the Virgin. "You were... humoring me?" he said tonelessly.

"That is correct."

"I-'m sorry- it- that is to say- you _were _fairly convincing..." he muttered, trying to sound less obviously disappointed.

"But that is because I have had years and years of practice." Russia laughed, taking his arm as they walked. "When I was a little one, perhaps, I was entirely faithful. When I grew a bit older, I found that there were some things I could not, and would not, feel ashamed for... so I had to pretend."

"Like what?"

"Like you, Toris."

Lithuania's eyes widened a little. Russia smiled. "You forget that I have had feelings for you since the fourteenth century?"

"I... No. I didn't..." Lithuania blushed and fell very quiet.

The other shrugged and looked down, his eyes following the soggy brick pavement. Counting the flagstones. "I was most pious right around then. I prayed for God to keep you safe, though he hadn't even done that much for me. I prayed that you would think of me sometimes- a little bit. I prayed that God would forgive me for thinking of you. Do not think it was easy," he added, with a peculiar edge to his voice. "To come to grips with the fact that my Church, the only solace I'd had as a child, would come to see me as an abomination before the Lord."


	4. Rain

**Rain**

Thick rain babbles like a delirious mind at the window, leaving wet, sticky kisses on the warped glass.

Thunder rolls somewhere off in the distance. Occasionally, there is a faint flicker of lightning that slices through the grey, turbulent clouds.

"Toris, what are you thinking about?" Russia whispers.

The query is an unexpected one- from him. Lithuania lies on his side. He has been watching the rain trickle down the thick glass for a very long time now, very quiet and very still. Russia whispers because he can not altogether rule out the possibility that Lithuania may have fallen asleep.

"Nothing, really." the other finally replies. "You?"

Russia smiles. "I am glad you could come," he whispers. "A house of this size is not meant to be empty."

"It's not empty, Ivantyé... _You _live here."

Russia shakes his head. "No, Toris. It is." His voice drops to a whisper. "You _hear _things when it's quiet... In the winter, you can hear the frost snapping on the windowpanes. It is the sound of a bone-eater, Toris. The sound that death makes."

In the dim light he sees Lithuania's silhouette flinch and immediately regrets having said that much. He pulls Lithuania closer and plants a comforting kiss in his hair. "I am thinking of having this old house condemned." he says, finally, after a long moment of silence. "I would like something smaller; just the right size for one or two people. _And _I would like to live in Kaliningrad." _Near you._ His tone overtly implies.

Lithuania rests his head on his shoulder, smiling. "I'd like that too, Ivan. But... What about Moscow? It's your home. It's always been your home."

"Not always. I've lived in Kiev. Saint Petersburg. _Stalingrad_." he accents this last with blatant disgust. "It has not always been Moscow."

"But you know what I mean... You've fought so hard to protect this place. Same as I've fought for Vilnius." Lithuania smiles wryly. "We've even fought to protect them from each other. Multiple times."

He hears Russia sigh. "That is true..."

"You know... we can still visit each other without you having to move house."

"For the time being... yes." Russia says quietly. "But I do not know how much longer we can keep doing this. My bosses are beginning to question. If they knew about our relationship, _miluiy_, I do not think that they would approve."

"I guess we'll just have to make an effort to appear more professional...?"

"More distant, you mean." The other nation frowns. "More aloof..."


	5. Small Mercies

**A/N: An alternate timeline. The conflicts mentioned here are NOT current events, but are what I imagine might happen if the past should... repeat itself in the future. Look up 'Memel Territory' and 'Chechen Wars' for more information.**

**Small Mercies**

It would have been a comfort to think of Lithuania waiting for him safely at home; envision him sitting cross legged on the bed, eating leftovers out of a plastic container like he usually did Monday nights, looking through their old photographs; thinking of him. But Lithuania was fighting Prussia over Memelland- and in all likelihood was just as cold, tired, and bored as Russia himself.

Ten months of skirmishes, kidnappings, and looting were starting to wear on him, and the fact that he was keeping his promise to Lithuania not to take up the bottle made it almost intolerable. He tried tobacco- again- but his cigarettes hadn't gotten much better since the sixties. The Chechens still loathed him and everything he stood for. Overall, a grim state of affairs.

He wanted to go home, and find Lithuania and bring him home too; to wake up in his arms and cover his sleeping face with soft, sticky kisses and drag him out of bed to have tea in the garden. He would help him cook meals and tug on his apron strings, teasing him gently and being teased in return and read beside him in bed and play card games and go on long, quiet walks, and dig through forgotten boxes of memorabilia for something interesting; talking of the future, reliving the past. And gradually, life would go back to normal for both of them.


	6. Alaska

**Alaska**

It was 1867.

_"Litva, Litva! Come and play with me_!"

But Lithuania merely stood there, gaping at Russia and the great wooden thing he had slung across his back. "W- what in the world is that, _gospodin_?"

"_Eto_ s_alázki_!" Russia chirped, grinning from ear to ear.

Lithuania was not sure how to respond to that.

"It's a kind of sled..."

"I... see."

Russia set the sled down at Lithuania's feet. For all its bulk apparent- it did not sink but an inch. Rather, its runners sat on the surface of the snow like a mosquito on the surface of a pond.

"Is it not wonderful, Litvachka?" Russia laughed, clapping his mittened hands with much muffled excitement. "America gave this to me."

"As a gift?" Lithuania asked disbelievingly.

"As payment for Alyaska!"

Lithuania stared at him. "You sold Alyaska."

"Da!"

"...for a toboggan."

"That is correct!" Russia grinned, having not even the slightest trace of regret.

**A/N: Actually, he sold Alaska for the equivalent of 2 cents an acre. Gratuitous use of Russian is gratuitous. But I speak Russian, so I have an excuse. _Gospodin_ is an antiquated term meaning 'sir' or 'your lordship'. It has recently come back into use meaning 'sir'.**


	7. Phone Stalking

**Phone Stalking**

Lithuania looked down at the call log, faintly amused. It said: seven missed calls.

Russia. He sighed. It had to be Russia. He dialed for the voice mail and listened.

" _Добрый __д__e__нь__, __милый_..."

Lithuania smiled. Yeah. Definitely Russia...

"_I had hoped to talk with you. Hmm... But I am sure you will call me back, __д__a_?" There was a faint beep. The recording had ended. Lithuania proceeded to the next:

_"Torisa, __I miss you very much~__!" _

_"Torisa~ pick up! Pick up!"_

_"Toris...! Why do you not answer my calls...!"_

_"Why are you ignoring me, Toris?"_

_"Toris... I am growing impatient~" _

"_Kolkolkol... Lithuania~ if I do not hear from you in one hour I am commandeering a flight to Vilnius and finding you myself_!"

Oh dear Lord... Lithuania checked his watch: it was 9:45. Russia had last called twenty minutes ago. But Lithuania wasn't willing to bet that he would wait a full hour to try something stupid.

**A/N:**

" _Добрый__д__e__нь__, __милый_..." = "Good day, darling."

_Torisa_ = what a diminutive of Toris might sound like. .


	8. The Quiet Place

**The Quiet Place**

It was a very small room, but evidently a special one. There were no windows at all in this room- that was the first thing Lithuania noticed- a feature which Russia did not hesitate to explain. The room stood alone, he said, cut off by hallways on all sides from the outside walls of his house. It was like the center of a spiraling maze; the perfect place to hide from the sinister lurking of General Winter- from the world and its troubles... This was where Russia retreated when he wished to feel safe. And Lithuania was, admittedly, pleased that he was inviting him in.

There was a large, soft bed in the corner, and a bookshelf. There were candles set in the mouth of the fireplace, which Russia explained had been bricked up many years ago out of fear that the phantom might try to come through the chimney. Now he knows better, of course, but there was no sense in dismantling it; that would be a waste of perfectly good mortar and brick.

Next to the chimney Russia had a small cabinet, wherein he kept more candles, a hot plate, a teapot, a tin mess set that looked like a remnant from the Second World War, boxes of tea, packets of candy, and, of course, matches.

The floor and the walls were insulated with thick rugs and the bed was heaped with pillows and quilts- many of them old and hand-knitted Lithuania noticed.

"All that's missing is vodka." he laughed.

"Hmm? Well, if you want it, there is a crate of it under the bed."

"What? N- no. I was only joking..."

Russia shrugged, lighting the candles. "The offer stands, yes?" he chuckled. "Do you like it here, Toris?"

"It's very nice." Lithuania muttered appreciatively.

At this, Russia smiled, shutting the door so that the soft tendrils of candlelight flickered and their smoke crept along the floor and under the doorjamb. He sat down on the bed beside Lithuania, who was browsing the bookshelf with timid curiosity. He had never really pictured Russia as being the type to read books, but the proof was before him: tomes of Tolstoy with broken spines, various dog-eared selections of Marx... Nikolai Gogol and Taras Shevchenko: gifts from his favorite sister.

**A/N:** Everyone needs a quiet place to hide from the world.


	9. Sleep Deprivation

**Sleep Deprivation**

Lithuania hadn't been sleeping lately; or so his fatigue and the dwindling coffee supply in his cabinet seemed to attest. He was always knee-deep in papers whenever Russia came over, frantically reading, collating, and signing... He refused to admit it, even thought it was written all over his face; he was a mess.

"How do you feel?" Russia asked quietly, shifting his shoulder a little to make a more comfortable spot for Lithuania's head.

"All right." Lithuania muttered. "Just... A little bit tired."

Russia nodded. Then, meant more as a subtle suggestion than an actual question he asked: "Are you turning in for the night?"

"I wish." Lithuania laughed. "Mmn- keep- keep doing that please," he sighed, urging Russia's fingers back to where they had been absent-mindedly massaging his scalp. "But- no, I'm just gonna lie down for a few minutes... Hah... That feels nice... I think I wouldn't mind a day off if I could spend it like this..."

"You need one. You're exhausted."

"Yeah, I guess. But it can't be today. I've got work to do later today... Same goes for tomorrow..." he yawns, snuggling up against him. "An' you know what happens when you put off work one day... It only gets twice 's heavy... th' next..."

"Toris, please. Just one day. You can't go on like this."

"I'll be fine. I'll have some coffee 'n a short nap, 'n maybe I'll sleep in on th' weekend, okay?"

"No." Russia frowns. "It isn't okay."

Lithuania shrugged, closing his eyes. "Forty-five minutes should be enough."

A few minutes passed by unnoticed in which Lithuania's breathing grew steadily quieter. Russia looked down at him solemnly; at the dark rings underneath his eyes, and wondered at what point his Toris had turned so stubborn.

Smiling ruefully, he picked up the clock on the night stand and knocked the batteries out.


	10. Letters

_In the coat pocket was a thick stack of letters, loosely tied together with string. They were unmarked. They were unsealed. None of the envelopes bore any inscription._

**Timeframe: **1857**.** Shortly after the end of the Crimean War.

**Premise**: Lithuania accidentally finds letters that Russia has been writing to him.

He put the envelope back, staring at it for a very long time rather timidly, and guiltily, knowing he shouldn't be reading love letters whose sentiments he really didn't return. He didn't know why he had read them, other than perhaps dumb curiosity, or some subconscious desire to be flattered, instead of taken for granted as a combination footman, laundress, and cook. Whatever the reason, he wasn't sure he wanted Russia to know. He retied the string as best he could, though admittedly not very well, and returned the letters to where they had originally been. Lithuania went out of the room like a ghost and did not look back, but he knew that the footsteps counting the stairs were Russia's and, a few minutes later, the entire first floor smelled like paper, burning.

It bothered him. It did. Wondering if Russia knew he had been reading his mail. He didn't say anything, didn't hint anything, when Lithuania brought him tea later that afternoon, nor did he the next day. With him, it seemed to be business as usual, even as Lithuania berated himself for having let his curiosity get the better of him.

Often now, he'd catch himself looking across the dinner table at Russia with a perplexed sort of frown. If Russia met his eyes, the imperative to look away became greater all of the sudden- as did the unsettling feeling that the other nation might find it hurtful. So, he would come up with an excuse for staring at him to save face with their housemates, who sat within earshot: "I was just wondering if you needed anything, _gospodin_," or "Your boss wanted to see you about something..."

And Russia always replied with some amiable answer. After two or three weeks on his toes, Lithuania finally began to feel slightly at ease. He put the incident out of his mind and made a point of avoiding any papers of Russia's which were not directly handed to him. It was a pleasant system that worked- until time came to clean out the fireplace.

Because fragments of words kept turning up.


	11. Those Memories

**Those Memories**

Over time, he discovers that Russia has scars of his own- the marks of some half dozen arrow wounds which were improperly treated- the little pit left by a shot that once entered his back- head injuries which healed and were overgrown by thick curls of blond hair- abrasions around his ankles where he would have worn manacles once...

But the one at his throat is the worst: a single, pencil-thin gash, yet so warped and so abused by time that it appears to stretch from ear to ear like a smile. The remains of a clear and deliberate cut.

He understand now why Russia never lets anybody get a good look at his neck, why he is always hiding the fact with a cravat, a turtleneck sweater, or scarf, and even though Russia makes the exception for him, he knows it is not without difficulty. So he doesn't ask, and Russia doesn't offer an answer.


	12. Why Do You Cry

**Why Do You Cry**

_Setting: A hotel, a summit being held god knows where._

Lithuania thought it was a waste of money to have their two rooms separate at all, since they both knew that they'd be spending most of their free time, when not in meetings, together. But the fact remained that neither of them were sure whether the world was ready to know they were.

"You haven't told anyone about us?" Russia had asked him, curiously, one afternoon which found Lithuania at the table organizing his work, and Russia himself on his bed, amused by a newspaper he had picked up that morning.

No was the answer, and he noticed that Lithuania looked almost despondent as he said it.

There had been a long silence in which the two of them stared quietly about the room. A tear slid down Lithuania's cheek, narrowly missing a printout, and fell soundlessly onto the carpet below.

"Why do you cry, Toris? "

"Because," he said tonelessly. "I can't stand the thought of lying to Eduard or Raivis or Felicks... But that's what I'm doing right now, isn't it?"

Russia said nothing, but came over to sit on the floor beside him, and taking his hand. "...you can... tell them if you want."

Lithuania smiled bitterly. "I can't... I know they mean well, Vanya, but they'd think I'm insane- or a masochist- and I don't know if I can deal with that. I'm such a coward, aren't I?"

Russia smiled, reaching up to dry Lithuania's eyes. "Miluiy... Sometimes, it is good to know when you have to avoid confrontation- and when is the best time to fight. You are choosing your battles. I do not think that makes you a coward."

A knock on the door interrupted them. "Room service."

"Please leave it outside." Russia called. "And... thank you." He turned to Lithuania, who looked embarrassed, and gave him a kiss on each tearstained cheek. "I think you will feel better after you eat, my love."


	13. A Little Misguided

**A Little Misguided**

It was his own fault, he knew that. He'd dug the hole in the first place- then dug himself steadily deeper. He had been little. He'd been in love. In love with the boy, yes, but also in love with how happy and cared-for he looked. He wanted to look like that- not ragged and dirty and shivering.

At times, little Muscovy didn't even remember who the boy was, but he wanted to show him how strong he could be. He wanted prove to himself that he was strong, and that maybe someday he could stand beside the boy on the bridge without feeling ashamed. He tried. He succeeded in freeing himself of the Tartar yoke- after so many failures- after so many arrows cut out of his flesh while he was still conscious and screaming. He thought maybe then he'd be good enough.

One of his women was the mother of Lithuania's ruler, and she urged her son to marry back into Russian royalty.

Muscovy had spent weeks and months in a haze of happiness- he'd been so sure that this marriage would happen, and that he'd finally get to be with the friend he had always wanted, the one he had always loved. So when the letter came, it took him a very long time to comprehend what was read to him; Lithuania would marry Poland, not him. The next few days after that, he couldn't remember.

It never occurred to him there that, ultimately, the decision had been made by Lithuania's boss. He still percieved it as a rejection. And it still hurt just as much as if had been.

And all he could think of, all he could do, was resolve to try harder. If driving the Tatar-Mongols out of his country wasn't enough, then he needed to prove himself otherwise.

Prussia had been the one to suggest partitioning Poland, and Muscovy had been sold from the start. If he could defeat Lithuania, maybe then he would win his heart; after all, it worked so well in the stories.

He would wake. He still dreamt about this. Still dreamt of the past. Sometimes, he would look over at Lithuania sleeping beside him and wonder whether he should reach out and touch him, or whether doing so would only ruin a remarkably good dream. And sometimes he was afraid that if he did find him real, he would hug him too tightly. He would accidentally smother him out of relief. So he lay there and watched him, until Lithuania would wake and give him a quizzical look. At least, this is what Lithuania did in the beginning. After a while he stopped. Instead, he would smile at him sleepily. He would put his arm around Russia and give him a hug.

**A/N:** This is based on a historical event, yes. Lithuania, prior to forming the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, actually was given a choice whether to join with Poland or Muscovy (Russia).


	14. Meaning

**Meaning**

"There was something I'd been meaning to ask you about..." Lithuania said. "Something I've sort of wondered about for a while. Exactly what did you mean when you said you wanted to see me come back to you 'crying, with a troubled face'?

"Exactly that." Russia beamed. "If Toris comes back to me crying, then I can make it all better. And if Toris comes back to me looking troubled, it would be because he loves me and is worried about me. But," he added. "Either way it is good because Toris comes back."

"Oh."

"And you did come back, after all." His eyes closed, as though there was something to be found underneath his eyelids, as though he were trying to see something of the past. "And I don't remember what look you had on your face, but you _came back_..." He smiled. "And that was what mattered the most..."


	15. Unorthodox Education

**Unorthodox Education**

"So, what is it you want with me, then?" England mutters. He tries to keep his hand steady as he plays with the cigarette lighter but the unpleasant knot in his stomach continues to grow for every second he can't figure out what the hell Russia is doing in London.

The younger nation fidgets uncomfortably in the Baroque period chair that is apparently too small for him. "I would like to ask you for advice," he says quietly.

"What about?"

"Well, um, sex."

England nearly swallows the lighter and cigarette both. "Hang on. I- I must have had something in my ear… Didn't hear you right… You came to me for advice on…?"

"How to screw someone?" Russia replies without missing a beat.

"And you're asking _me._"

"Da."

"May I ask, then, what the bloody _hell_ you're asking me for! Isn't there someone on the _other_ side of the English Channel better suited to answering your questions?"

"I'm afraid France is a little too well suited." Russia sighs. "He would insist on a hands-on demonstration, and I'm not sure Lithuania would be happy about that. So you seemed like the better choice, yes?"

England feels himself blush from head to toe. What- were those bastards advertising him as a sex education teacher now! He tries to remain cool, flicking the lighter incessantly like the rat-a-tat-tat of ammunition rounds going off.

"Well, you've got to understand, mate…" he coughs. "I-'m not really…- now _see here_- I am a fucking _gentleman!"_

"Yes. I know."

"And _not_ in the way you're thinking of! What I mean is- I mean- _are you sure you couldn't take this matter up with France!_"

"Positive." Russia says cheerfully.

**A/N:** What. I'm sure England would make an excellent sex ed instructor.


	16. It's Me Again

**It's Me Again**

**A/N**: Ivan only ever feels comfortable talking about his past traumas when he knows Toris can't listen.

_[a companion piece to "Those Memories"]_

It was something he treasured; to be able to lie next to Lithuania, caressing his hair. To be able to tell him anything without seeing his eyes widen distressingly. It really was fortunate for him that Lithuania slept like a log.

"It's me again, Toris." Ivan sighed, sitting up, cross legged on the bed. "I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about things again."

The wind wailed across the Siberian steppes, but Lithuania slept.

"It is much easier to talk like this, miluiy... That way, when you wake up, you won't remember." he smiles. "You are very fortunate that you will not remember..."

_It took the passage of time immaterial, from the moment he opened his eyes, to actually bring his vision into focus. For a long while he lay staring at the cavernous ceiling, letting his senses seep back into him slowly. He wondered what had been happening up to this point. A heavy blanket of silence smothered the air._

_He tried to sit up. He collapsed. He rolled from side to side. It took him several more tries to pull himself upright, though he folded over as soon as he had done so, clutching his head in his hands. Flecks of salt came loose from his lashes and the skin of his face. His hair was filthy- matted with the grime of immeasurable days. Worst of all was the stench- the rank smell of sweat that permeated his clothes and his bedsheets. How many days had he lain there, he wondered. Exactly how long had he been ill?_

_The old house was dark all around him, and in the pale moonlight that poured through the window, he could see his own breath. Frost crackled on the windowpanes. The corridors moaned._

_He shivered, pulling the foul-smelling bedclothes around him._

_«Toris?» he called weakly. The words stuck in his dry throat like insects on flypaper, making it excruciatingly painful to talk. «Toris, are you there?» he whispered. «I need you...»_

_There was only silence. He needed Toris to hear him, wherever he was. He rolled over onto his side and fumbled under the bed. His fingers closed around the neck of an empty bottle. With the last of his strength he bashed it against the nightstand, where it exploded into a million . Surely someone would have heard that. A wave of nausea swept him, and he lowered his head onto the pillow once more, watching the door and listening for footsteps running, or a frantic voice calling his name._

_But there was only silence._

_And no one ever came._

"They ripped me apart, Toris... All those times when my great house fell apart... Every time everyone left me." he whispers, tugging on the ends of Lithuania's hair. "It was never very easy to live like that, but I used to think, perhaps, if I had had you there, it would have made everything better.

The bed creaks as he lies down on his stomach beside Lithuania. "But I guess... that isn't your fault is it, miluiy?" he finally sighs. "Since I never tell you these things."

**A/N:** I promise the next one will be happier, fluffier [I found some fluffy requests on the kink meme to give me ideas].


	17. Mais La Nuit, Il Dort

**Mais La Nuit, Il Dort**

"Was there a reason you called me here, _gospodin_?" Lithuania sat precariously at the foot of the bed, staring at Russia, whose mind seemed to be elsewhere. He had the blankets bunched up around him, his head in his knees. Whatever sense of urgency Lithuania had gleaned from his shouting down the hallway was... gone. He tried again: "...was there something you needed?" _at one in the morning... _he wanted to add.

"Please stay here."

"...what?"

Russia looked up at him, expressionless. "Please stay here with me."

"Ah, b- but gospodin, I need to sleep..." _Latvia and Estonia will be panicking by now..._

"This is... only for a little while." Russia amended, shifting a little bit closer, so that his knee bumped against Lithuania's hand. "I'd like you to... stay here... until I fall asleep... please?"

Lithuania stared at him. "...all right."

A smile. "Thank you, Toris."

"You're... welcome." he sighed.

There was a faint sound of bedsprings, of heavy fabric moving around. And then, for no discernible reason, Russia's arms and the heavy wool blanket were around him.

He was warm, very warm, that was what surprised Lithuania the most. His hair was soft and smelled like dried chamomile. And he held him, if only because he didn't know what else he could do.

An hour went by, or perhaps only a few minutes went by, but by and by, ever so gradually, the full weight of Ivan's body slumped against his became unbearable. The warm cloud of breath on his neck had fallen into a steady routine- finally- after some passage of time which had been punctuated by shivering and soft, unintelligible mumbling.

Toris found that removing Ivan's sleeping head from his shoulder was not so much a process of letting him down gently as it was an accident in which the most innocent shifting of his wearied muscle caused the taller nation to fall sharply on his back. It was only by the grace of God that Ivan's head hit the pillow and not, say, the floor, as it undoubtedly would have had Lithuania moved just a little bit left and not a little bit right- as he did. It was an even greater stroke of luck that Ivan remained asleep throughout the incident, and Lithuania had not missed the opportunity to let out a sigh of relief.

He watched the vapor trail rise from his mouth like cigarette smoke and dissipate into the darkness. God, it was cold. By now, he should have been used to this room being a mere one or two degrees above the typical fare of Siberia, but without the other nation's warm bulk it seemed far worse.

Before Toris realized what he was doing, he had pulled the thick quilt up to the level of Ivan's neck, and no higher for he assumed that the scarf that stayed on every day, every night and with utter disregard for state holidays would keep him sufficiently warm. With the bedclothes masking his height and the darkness to soften his features, the fearsome master now resembled nothing more than a little boy.

He stood up and made a move for the door. He got all of two paces before he turned around and went back, to tuck in the blankets around Ivan even as he mentally berated himself for doing so. Perhaps he was thinking of Felicks, who had always kicked off his bedclothes and caught cold, or perhaps he was thinking of Raivis, who had screaming nightmares in which his loose sheets came to life and strangled him. Whichever it was, Lithuania sighed and wrote off this absurd level of concern as simply being a part of his personality.

The hallway was carpeted, and he did not need to fear making much noise. Having shut the door securely behind him, and suddenly weak with relief that he had actually survived an evening unscathed, he made his way into the kitchen. To his surprise, he found the lights were still on, and that Estonia sat at the table, his fingers folded securely around an earthenware mug, looking po-faced, until he looked up and saw Lithuania, at which point his expression seemed to flutter between anxiety and concern.

"Do you want a cup of coffee?" he asked Lithuania. "I've had five."

"Is it any good?"

Estonia cringed. "It's awful."

Lithuania sat down beside him, rubbing his temples. "Why do you drink it if it's so awful?"

"Because Russia's got all the liquor." Estonia said seriously. Then, almost off-handedly; "You were gone a long time. Hours, in fact."

"I... hadn't noticed."

"Poor Latvia was in pieces. He barely got to sleep."

Lithuania looked down at his hands. Sleep sounded like a rather swell idea about now. "I'm... sorry. I'll make it up to him tomorrow."

"Lithuania," Estonia stared at him darkly over the rims of his eyeglasses. "Lithuania, did something happen?"

"Not really, no."

Thunk. Estonia had slammed the mug down on the table. "I'm not a child. You don't have to put on the strong suit for me."

"What are you-"

"Do you think you've kept us in the dark, Raivis and I? That kid- he's afraid for you, Lithuania, and he can't even begin to understand why... He moves like a wraith sometimes, in and out of the rooms- stands in the doorway with that haunted look on his face, as if he's looking and listening. And then you smile and tell him nothing is wrong and he knows that you're lying to him... And I can't stand it. I can't stand being lied to and I can't stand that fake smile of yours. Lithuania... If anything has happened- anything at all... You don't have to keep it inside..."

Lithuania's stomach floundered in the nastiest possible way. "You think I was..."

Estonia's face was taut.

"Oh my God, Eduard! Do you have any idea of what you're saying!" he shuddered. "Do you just look at me and expect the absolute worst!"

"Toris, I only-"

"_Do you!_?"

"For Christ's sake, Lithuania- keep your voice down!"

"_Answer my question!_"

"Lithuania," he sighed. "You have to think of that man as being capable of anything. Including... rape." he shuddered as if the very word made him feel ill and exposed. "And you can't pretend you haven't noticed the way he looks at you sometimes..."

"What way?"

Estonia adjusted his glasses. "As if- Um. A- if he's trying to figure out what you look like- under your clothing."

"...Estonia, are you sure _you're_ feeling well?"

"I'm _fine_! _You're_ the one you should be worried about!"

A heavy silence hung between them. Lithuania seemed to be lost for words. "Eduard... He didn't... He just... wanted me to sit with him until he fell asleep... That's all."

"And he didn't lay a hand on you?"

"N- no." Lithuania said. At least, not in the way that Eduard was thinking.

And the look Estonia gave him was perhaps one of the most despairing that he'd ever seen. "Then why do you smell like him?" And suddenly, he was alone.

* * *

That morning, it rained, and it rained heavily, swelling the shallow ditch in the driveway to the size of a small pond, peeling the autumn leaves off their trees and mixing them into a mash in the gutters. All Lithuania wanted was to go back to sleep, but he fought the urge to crawl back under the covers as he pulled on his socks, buttoned his shirt, hunted for his shoes under the radiator.

The kitchen was dark and unoccupied. The clock in the hall said 6:00, so it was still reasonable to assume that everyone but him should be sleeping.

He dug through the cabinets, yawning. Top drawer? No. Cabinet? No. Lithuania sighed. It was too early in the morning to be looking for his apron like this.

He ducked under the counter. Nothing but skillet and worn copper pots, one of which caught on his sleeve and dropped with a jarring, though not too terrible noise.

"Careful with those, Toris. They're noisy."

That voice. He looked up to only to find Russia looking down at him, smiling.

"Ah-h- gospodin, you're awake!"

"Yes," Russia nodded.

"Isn't it- a bit early for you?"

"Mm. Not very early, no... I... wanted... to talk to you, Toris."

"...did you."

"Yes. Um. Hmm. I was wondering..." Russia drifted off, playing with the fringe of his scarf. "Would you stay with me again tonight?"

A question. Lithuania hesitated, remembering the argument with Estonia the previous night, remembering the implications of being in Russia's room for so long.

"No."

Russia's expression faltered for a second, but only just. "Okay," he stared at the floor, thinking. "Then... can I stay with you? I'll lie down on the floor if there isn't any room for me..."

Lithuania swallowed painfully. Good God, the last thing he or Latvia or Estonia needed was Russia rooming with them.

"No- that wouldn't be possible- there's not enough room- at all- not even on the floor- the beds- the beds are too close together- since it's the three of us already- and-"

"Why all three?" Russia looked at him curiously. "There are plenty of rooms in the house."

"It's cold." Toris lied without missing a beat. _We're terrified of being alone._

Russia seemed to believe him. "It is." he nodded. "I will try to have the house better heated in the future." He turned on his heel and took a few steps in the direction of the door. In the doorframe, he paused for a second, to look over his shoulder. "I... forgot to say thank you for sitting with me last night." he smiled.

"...you're welcome."

"Toris is very good at chasing the nightmares away."

"...nightmares, gospodin?" he heard himself ask.

"Da." said Russia succinctly. " "But you can't tell anybody about those. Because it's our secret, agreed?"

**A/N**: A little reversal of roles: Russia falls asleep on Liet. Holy moly, this thing tripled in size since I first posted it. ._.' In any case, I hope you enjoy. Yes, it's full of mood whiplash, but I think that the argument with Estonia is some of the best writing I've ever done, and this chapter would not be complete without it. X3


	18. Letters, Part II

**:107 Letters, Part II**

_1857_

Lithuania keeps one letter. Just one. The one he finds in the fireplace. The one which has been at least partially shielded from the flames by a log. Charred, fragile, but still mostly legible, a small, insignificant note:

_Torisa, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday from St. Petersburg. Having left on such short notice, I am sad that I could not be there to see you, but I am sure you are celebrating with Latvia and Estonia and are enjoying yourselves. I bought you a coat- something nice and new to keep you warm when you're out on your errands... One morning, you will probably find it lying on your bed and ask where it came from, and I will probably tell you I found it in the back of some closet and thought you might need it. Perhaps one day I will be able to give something to you as a gift from someone who loves you._

_-Yours, always yours, Ivan._

Lithuania knows the coat that he is referring to. That was some three years ago: he still wears it, and he feels his ears burning, though he didn't know why.

As for the letter... He slips it into his pocket and brushes the soot away quietly. He retreats downstairs with the coal scuttle, wondering if he should burn it. There is no reason to keep it. There is no reason to read it. He doesn't need to be flattered, he reminds himself. It's not anything of great emotional or literary value.

Just a letter. Written by Russia.

Russia's letters are always such simple things. It is apparent immediately that despite all the talented writers and poets giving credit to his name, Russia himself has never mastered anything beyond basic spelling and grammar. And, even then, ancient letters from an obsolete alphabet still managed to work their way into his writing.

The subject matter is always the same: he talks about his everyday life, he talks about how he feels for Lithuania- how he misses him when he's away- and always the things he wants to say to him, the things he wants to do for him that he can't. He is curt about trivial matters like war, wounds, and tiredness on the march... but he devotes whole paragraphs to writing about charming, irrelevant incidents like finding a smooth stone in his coat pocket or a ladybug in his hair.

I love you. I miss you. I wish you would notice me... Always so blunt and straightforward, oscillating between sweet and excitable and other times sober, despairing. But then, Lithuania remembers, these letters were never intended for mailing.

He folds the letter five or six times and he hides it in his pocket where it sits like a weight- because there is nowhere to hide it. There is no such thing as a secret in a room where three people sleep; there are no drawers which he can be certain Estonia isn't going to open. There is no pillowcase that is not at risk of being borrowed by Latvia.

Such a heavy secret, such a tangible secret, it is. That it belongs to two people does not make it lighter to carry. It will not let him forget. It will not let him put Russia out of his mind very easily. Lying in bed, he imagines it sit on his chest like a lead plate.

_Why, why, why in the hell couldn't he stop himself reading those letters?_

He has to get rid of it. True, in his own room there is nowhere to hide it, but perhaps somewhere else- somewhere he'd never expect Russia to look. He only knows as he can't return it: can't risk Russia seeing him in his room with a charred letter in hand and its contents written plainly on his face.

_Why the hell did he take it?_

He can't deal with this anymore. He kicks the bedclothes aside, cursing himself under his breath, cursing Russia, and curiosity, and the advent of paper, and logs that get in the way and letters that just wouldn't burn.

_There has to be somewhere to hide it._

He slips through the crack in the door, closest it softly behind him. He runs, his feet almost mute- woolen socks against the thick carpet that plasters the hallway.

He runs- past Belarus's room, past the empty guest bedroom where Ukraine stays when she comes for a visit. Past his room- he slows down- proceeds cautiously. Turning the corner, he runs.

There is a door and he opens it. A small library. The air is thick, heavy, and stale. He searches for a lamp, any lamp, in the dim moonlight. He finds one- it has enough oil- it will do.

He lights it. The room comes alive.

There must be somewhere to hide it, he thinks, laying his hand over his chest, over the letter. A book. Any book. No. Something Russia would never come looking for.

He scans the volumes on the shelf nearest him. Alfred Rambaud. A History of Russia. It's brand new and thickly coated in dust. A gift, probably. He takes the letter out of his pocket, unfolds it, smoothing it out against the rib of the bookshelf.

She jams it in between two pages. The stiff spine protests. He puts it back where it was.

No.

It looks too conspicuous. He tries to think. Higher. It needs to higher. Where forgotten books go.

He puts one foot on the bookshelf. Another. He climbs very carefully, colluding the dust, and it leaves smears on his shirtfront, his sleeves. This whole room will have to be cleaned tomorrow if he can find time... He'll have to find time. He doesn't want Russia to know.

He holds himself steady with one hand, holds the book in the other, looking around for an empty space on the shelf. Somewhere the light doesn't fall-

"Toris?"

Lithuania freezes. The book hits the floor with a bang.

"Gospodin, why- what are you doing here...!"

"I live here," Russia smiles wanly. "Also, I followed a light. Why aren't you sleeping like everyone else?"

"I- couldn't." Lithuania clings to the bookcase. Something about this height makes him feel safe. "I thought of maybe getting something to read..."

"I see." Russia kneels, gently picks up the book. He stares at the cover. His face falls. "...but... why would you be reading this?"

"Ah..."

"Hmm. Something fell out of it."

"_Don't_!"

Russia stops, staring at him. Then, very slowly, very deliberately, he unfolds the letter. He sucks in his breath. _"Where did you get this...?" _

"When I was cleaning the fireplace..." Lithuania mutters.

Russia does not look up at him. "...is this the only letter you found?"

"Yes. Definitely- ah- none of the others..."

_...oh no._

Russia's head jerks upright like a startled animal's. In the semi-darkness, his face is chalk white. His eyes are enormous. "_You read the others_!"

Lithuania takes a step back, anticipating... something. "I'm sorry-"

"No!" Russia cuts him off. "Don't tell me! I don't want to know!"

"W-what-?"

_"Don't talk_!" Russia buries his face in his sleeves, jerking his head side to side, shaking violently. "I can't hear it... I c-can't hear it_... I don't want it!_ YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO READ THOSE, TORIS!"

"I'M SORRY-"

"GET! _OUT_!"

Lithuania needs no encouragement. He bolts for the hallway. He ducks. The door slams shut at his heels, extinguishing what little light the dusty paraffin lamp might have provided.

He slumps against the adjacent wall, breathing heavily. He hears footsteps on the soft carpet- Latvia and Estonia. Belarus, white as a porcelain doll in her long nightgown.

"Lithuania! Lithuania, are you okay! What in God's name was that yelling!" Estonia demands, barely able to keep the candle-holder steady.

Lithuania wipes a cold film of sweat from his forehead, shuddering, speechless. He nods.

And he notices her face over Estonia's shoulder- her eyes narrow and icy. She turns away from him, she kneels by the door, presses her palms flat against the old wood: "Ivanchik, are you in there? It's Nata." she coaxes, tracing the grain with her finger. "Why was he yelling at you, darling-heart? Answer me..."

But there is no answer. There is no sound. She tries the doorknob- her expression hardens upon finding it locked.

She turns to Lithuania, the light casts long shadows on her face, sharpening her cheekbones and stern little chin, stiffening the folds of her nightgown into an alloy. "What did you say to him?" she demands.

Lithuania winces under her withering gaze. "I don't know-"

"I don't believe you! What did you say to him!"

"I didn't-! He didn't want me to talk..."

For a moment, her features seem to distort.

"You... are a _liar_." she hisses.

The door remains shut.

* * *

The sun rises but the door remains shut. And if the household ceases to panic it is due to exhaustion alone: Latvia faints and has to be carried to bed, Estonia yawns between every mouthful of breakfast, periodically removing his glasses to massage the bags under his eyes.

Belarus forgoes eating, choosing instead to remain vigil outside of her brother's room. She brings him tea. She comforts. She pleads. She throws tantrums: she accuses him of ignoring her- his own sister- family- she is supposed to be dearer to him than honor itself!

To this, Russia says nothing. Perhaps he doesn't hear any of it. The door remains closed. The silence of it is nerve wracking.

Belarus weeps openly now- tiredly, like a child thwarted too many times. Lithuania hates it- he's never been able to stand tears from a lady. He wants to console her, but she won't even let him get close.

He watches her kicking the door- each kick getting weaker as she realizes how futile they are. She limps away, finally, to her own room and all is silence once more.

What will happen now, Lithuania wonders, leaning against the window-frame, twisting his hair. Russia knows he's been reading his mail. He should be more frightened by this, but he isn't, and he's not entirely sure whether it's the cumulative effect of the letters or the fact that Russia seems to have vanished altogether- evaporated with the last of the oil in the lamp. He hardly seems real anymore.

And when he closes his eyes he can see him- see the mortified look on his face. And when he opens his eyes, Russia is gone and there is nothing left but a sun-drenched, quiet corridor and a cooling tea service left outside of a locked door- probably for him to clean up.

Lithuania shakes his head. For all that Belarus is a charming young lady, she never seems to be in the habit of cleaning up after herself. He kneels by the door and reaches for the old silverware, resigned to his fate.

He hears a muffled sob.

Lithuania pauses. This voice doesn't sound like Belarus anymore. He glances over his shoulder, down the hall, ad he sees no one. Gingerly, he presses his ear to the crack in the door.

"_Gospodin_?"

The sound cuts off abruptly.

_Ah, so was you..._ Lithuania bites his lip. "Sir," What do you want me to say? "Ivan...? I'm sorry."

Silence.

"I'm sorry for disrespecting your privacy... Those letters- they were your property... And I acted out of line..." he picks up a teaspoon from the tray at his side, playing with it nervously. "And I'm sorry... because I don't… really know how to respond-"

Russia slams on the door with such force that it buckles. Lithuania scrambles away teeth chattering, clutching his ears.

And with the wood still vibrating on its hinges he hears a low groan: "_Mother of God, WHY DO YOU KEEP TORTURING ME LIKE THIS_?"

"Ah-"

"I already _told_ you-" Russia wails. "_I don't want to hear it!_ I- already _know_, Toris!" he chokes violently. "I already know you don't... like me. I already know you don't want me... _Are you really going to force me to hear it!"_

Lithuania's heart drops to his stomach. He moves a bit closer to the door again. "That- that isn't... I _do_ like you," he mutters, softly enough that no one but Russia might hear_. In a way..._ "I just don't..." he stops. Swallows the rest of the sentence. Breathes out. "Ivan, may I come in?"

A soft noise drifts through the woodwork, but not a reply. Lithuania lowers his voice. "Please open the door, Ivan... I… care about you. Please_- let me in_."

No reply, only a quite hiccoughing.

But then…

There is a faint click.

And the lock comes undone.

And the door finally opens.

There, he sees Russia, sitting in a huddled mass on the floor. His eyes are swollen, his face blotchy and marbled like meat. Lithuania opens his arms to him, and Russia buries his face in his collar, still stiff, tentative, but breathing more steadily now. He says nothing and he lifts his head only briefly- to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Lithuania doesn't press him. He lets the quiet linger a moment, smoothing Russia's deranged-looking hair. He gives him a few minutes before asking:

"Are you going to come downstairs? We're having lunch in a few minutes."

Russia shakes his head, mutters something unintelligibly into his collar.

"What did you say?"

_"I don't want them to look at me."_

"They… don't know." says Lithuania. "I didn't tell anyone."

"…but they will think things."

"I promise- they won't. _Gospodin_. I'm asking you. Please."

Russia hesitates. "No one will laugh at me…?"

"Of course not."

"And you, Toris? You wouldn't laugh at me either?"

"Never." he smiles.

**A/N: **I promised a few people a continuation of _Letters_. No, I don't think Toris quite loves him yet, but he does care.


	19. Gently

**Gently **

Russia seemed to have some sort of a fixation with his hair. He was always stroking it, pressing his face against it, and sometimes just toying with it, standing over Lithuania while he worked. Lithuania didn't mind- he thought the gesture was rather sweet, and the gentle, repetitive motions eased his headaches magnificently.

Sometimes he would give in, and easing his head back into Ivan's large hands, he would relax, and an afternoon would pass away quietly as the two of them dozed on one side of the couch.


	20. Sparrows

**Sparrows**.

"Those birds are driving me mad, Toris."

Lithuania nudges him sleepily. "For heaven's sake, Vanya." he yawns. "Leave the poor birds alone..."

"But the chirping- day and night-

"-'s part of the way life goes. It's spring. They're trying to attract a mate..."

"On my windowsill."

Lithuania sighs. "Yes, Ivan. On your windowsill.

"...I do not like it." Russia pouts, crossing his arms.


	21. Troubles

**Troubles**

Lithuania nestled his head into his arms with a heavy sigh. He felt overwhelmed- by work, by politics, by Russia's... illness. By the fact that he was facing it all on his own. Not a day went by that he did not deeply despair at his boyfriend's behavior, nor feel sick with shame about it afterwards. He knew it wasn't Russia's fault he was the way he was. But still... Both of them lived on the edge and it did not take much for one to set the other off. Trivial matters quickly escalated to verbal battles and ended with one or more parties crying like frustrated children in separate rooms.

Half the things Russia did made no sense to him; another quarter would have come off as sinister or overtly manipulative were Lithuania not aware of the fact that Ivan had difficulty expressing himself otherwise. Sometimes it was too much for him to handle. And yet, even then he was learning- beginning to pick up on certain patterns of behavior, of body language, subtle machinations in Russia's face that said everything he did not.

A flickering smile would mean _I am ashamed._

A little tap on Lithuania's fingertips:_ I want to spend time with you._

When Russia grabbed his arm for no apparent reason, it was because he was too panicked to say_ Don't go without me._

He sang folk tunes under his breath when he was in a good mood.

He giggled hysterically when he was afraid or uncomfortable.

He hated being ignored- he feared being left alone without warning- being denied any sort of attention even if Lithuania was obviously busy. When given the cold shoulder, he sat off to the side looking melodramatic until Toris gave in and went over to put his arms around him.


	22. The New Year

**The New Year**

A kiss certainly had seemed like a good way to greet the new year, and Russia and Lithuania were still kissing long after the countdown had ended. Perhaps they had thought that in all the excitement, amidst loud, enthusiastic toasts no one would notice them- or else that no one would care.

Yet somehow they were attracting a small captive audience- Hungary with her little pink camera- France with an obscene facial expression- and a particularly drunk and moralistic England complaining loudly to Scotland about how '_some_' people should just get a bloody room.

* * *

**A/N: **Happy New Year, everyone. I thought I must post some things for the occasion. Do not worry, not everything I post in the future will be this short, but there are some pieces that I wanted to share.


	23. Morning

**Premise**: Modern day. Though Ivan and Toris can't get legally married, they come to a point where they decide they'd like to live like a 'married' couple nevertheless. Which includes skipping a day or two of work to spend quality time together. I do think this fic shows a facet of Liet's personality you don't normally see, and I apologize if it comes off as a bit odd. I wanted to try something going off of Himaruya's character notes that said Liet just doesn't know how to take a joke sometimes ;)

* * *

**Morning**

Russia might swear he can hear the Tetris theme song playing in his sleep. He fumbles blindly around the nightstand for his cell phone, finds it, and holding it awkwardly to his face: "Alyo?"

"LOOK HERE, YOU COMMUNIST BASTARD!" greets a cheerful voice on the other line. "I don't care if your country _does_ have eleven time zones- four o'clock means four'o clock! And that means you show up at the meeting and sit on your fat rear and act like you freaking care for a few hours- I mean, it's not like we're asking for a lot from you-"

"Who is It, Vanya?" Lithuania murmurs sleepily over his shoulder.

Russia lets out a grunt. "America."

Lithuania nods understandingly. "Be nice to him, okay...?"

"Do I really-"

"Yes, yes you do." Lithuania affirms, kissing the tender spot where his shoulderblades meet and making him hiss with delight.

"- Hey! Are you ignoring me! The hell are you talking to anyway!"

"My husband," Russia tells him serenely.

There is a pause. "I'm sorry. Your what-!"

"Da. Now shut up and go find Mongolia if you are really concerned about people who don't show up for your meetings. He has not shown up for anything since 1996." He hangs up before America can respond.

Lithuania raises an eyebrow at him. "That wasn't nice,"

"Nonsense." Russia purrs. "It is only fair that I hold America to his own high standards if he is going to preach to me about truancy. Also, I did not threaten him with nuclear war even once!"

"...I appreciate the effort." Lithuania gives him a kiss.

"I can be very diplomatic when I wish to be..." Russia smiles, and begins kissing back.

A phone rings.

"M not ge'ing tha',"

"Actually, I think it's mine..." Pushing him off, Lithuania reaches over the side of the bed. "It's America." he chuckles. "Oh wow. I didn't even think he'd remembered me."

"Leave it."

"That would be rude."

"Rude is America's culture." Ivan mutters; his hands are already unbuttoning the front of Toris's shirt.

"No- I'm going to answer him- so stop that!" he flashes Russia a warning look. Russia stops, looking sullen.

"Alo?"

"_OhmygodLietwheretheheckareyou_!" America wails over the cellular line. "_Really_, I thought you had better work ethic than that _drunken Commie fuck_ who not only _didn't_ show up and even had the gall to _punk_ me when I tried to phone him!"

Russia watches curiously as two fierce red spots appear on Lithuania's cheeks. "...Listen to me, Alfred," there is no mistaking the vicious edge to his voice. "I don't want to hear you call Ivan that _ever again_-"

"Well, what the heck else am I supposed to call that lying bastard who's probably passed out drunk in Saint Petersburger somewhere! He must have been _really_ wasted or something because he couldn't even come up with a very good lie. Said something about having a husband. Not that I got anything against... uh... well, _that sort of person_- but who in the hell would marry him is what I want to know-"

"Well, I did." Lithuania replies acidly.

There is a pause. "Did what."

"Married him."

"Married who...?"

"Russia."

There is a long and ghastly silence. "..._Jesus f_-"

Lithuania hangs up and tosses the phone over the side of the bed.

"_That wasn't very nice_." Russia comments snidely.

Lithuania mutters, pulling the covers over his head: "...It's harder than you think."

"Personally, I think you should threaten him with nuclear war some time."

From under the bedclothes, an angry retort: "And risk being invaded like Afghanistan or Iraq and strip-searched for WMD's? Are you crazy? "

"You need not worry about that." Russia smiles, uncovering his face playfully. "After all, only I am allowed to invade Lithuania, yes?"

"Not according to NATO, you aren't." Lithuania snaps, evidently still in a very defensive and literal mood.

"Ah. That is not _quite_ what I meant, Toris..." Russia smiles, playing with one of Lithuania's cowlicks.

"Oh. That."

"Yes. That..." he gives him a kiss, and another. He licks his throat; slowly and deliberately. His breath is scalding. "Choose, Torisa-" he presses. "Top or bottom."

"What happened to 'yes' or 'no'?" Lithuania mutters. "Don't I have say in that matter?"

"Of course you do! You can always say no. However, a yes comes highly recommended~!"

Lithuania considers this. "...I think I want to go back to sleep."


	24. The Unseen Night

**The Unseen Night**

_November 1810_

The base concerns of the Russian aristocracy were three: vanity, war, and state welfare- in that order. The fancy most frequently tickled was the first, with Babylonian galas where the second and third might be discussed at great distance, at great leisure, in French.

Russia was expected to go to these parties, naturally. The high ranking aristocrats, who knew what he was, thought it was a novel idea; a great practical joke to be played on the foreigners, the nouveau riche and the dregs of the old families who were not aware that they bumped elbows with the personification of their state. After centuries of being a farm boy, a guttersnipe, and a soldier, Russia had attained the status of family pet.

It was for this reason, he'd explained to Lithuania while the other was fervently wishing he'd go away, that he hated the soirees and had successfully managed to avoid them for some sixty-five years. Reactions from his monarchs had been decidedly mixed: Paul the First, small and timid as he was did not wish to call a man twice his size out on truancy. His predecessor, Catherine, after failing to coax Russia into attending, had refused to speak to him for a month.

Unfortunately for Russia, his current Tsar Alexander had neither his father's temerity nor his grandmother's extravagant reputation. The first time he caught Russia avoiding a party, he did not hesitate to summon him into his office to inform him that if he, as Emperor, had to do this four or five times a month, then God help him, Russia did too. The Russia that left his study an hour and a half later dragged his feet in precisely the same way a scolded, overgrown child would. He was consoled only by the fact that he was permitted to bring anybody he liked.

So Russia brought Lithuania to share in his misery and thus began the first of many nights spent shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably. It might have been the Russian uniform, which Lithuania hated. It might have been the atmosphere- too flashy, absurd; like the scene of a drama. It might have been the fact that he couldn't understand anything anybody was saying around him. The words were strange and unfamiliar and the r's sounded precisely like g's.

On those occasions he did understand, he wished he had not: it was inherently strange for a country to hear its fate being so frankly discussed- in the way people talk in front of children as if they weren't really there. Most of the conversations concerned Russia, or France, although Lithuania heard the name of his former capital, Vilnius, mentioned a couple of times.

For the most part, people left him alone, and Lithuania was grateful for this. Even Russia was often too harried to say more than two words before Alexander whisked him away. So, most nights he was free to wander on the outskirts of the party, perhaps nibbling on something sweet. But some nights he found two or three- sometimes four- pretty girls who hovered around him. Those nights were the worst.

The young ladies jabbered in French and they jabbered in Russian- always in that coquettish double-edged dialect known only to women. Half the time Lithuania wasn't really sure what they were talking about, and just smiled politely, but by and by, he could not shake the unsettling feeling that they were flirting with him.

He tried to ignore them as politely as a gentleman could, but the girls took his silence as a challenge rather than a deterrent. They swarmed about him like belligerent butterflies, making a game out of trying to get him to talk, or to smile.

Or to blush.

"Come on, good soldier," they teased. "Won't you at least tell us your name?"

"My name is Toris Loriantis," he said with a sigh. It wasn't his name, but it would just have to do.

"That is a strange name," the girls chirped amongst themselves. "And your accent is unusual too. Where are you from, Mr. Loriantis?"

"Lithuania." said Lithuania, curtly and redundantly.

Blank looks were all he got in return. "And where is this village of Lithuania?"

That just about killed him.

"I'm- it's not a village!" he protested passionately. "It's a nation- an independent country- or at least, it used to be- but then there was the Union of Lublin and the Commonwealth, and Russia... and then Russia..." he trailed off, leaving his small audience puzzled and more than a little concerned. Finally, with an air of capitulation: "…it's a bit to the west." he muttered, and this seemed good enough for them.

Winter came- early, as always, to St. Petersburg. Frost and thick, weighty snow began to settle over the roofs of the churches, the manors, and the inevitable slums. Faint candle glows illuminated the windows of some of the more distant wings of the palace. When he had a moment of peace, Lithuania would look at the lights and wonder what in the name of God he was doing here. Though, these days, he rarely had a moment of peace.

However reluctantly, he had picked up rumors of war-to-come with the French. There were whispers of Napoleon making an ally of Poland, promising to return to him the 'territory' that Russia had taken- Lithuania, namely.

It made Lithuania's stomach clench. Again, always being referred to as 'territory'- as if he'd never had a mind or a will of his own- and as much as he had wanted to see his dearest friend these last few years, this wasn't the way he'd imagined it. As much as he'd disliked the crowds of courtiers before, he now liked them instinctively less.

Lithuania did his best to blend into the background at social functions these days, drawing away from the voices, towards the edge of the tables, the edge of the room, always wary of people lingering in the doorways. It was remarkably easy to be passed over, unseen, with a small sweet in his hand, as he slipped into the corridor.

But where to go... He thought of his room with stacks of letters and forms lying formidably on his desk- but he might have been willing to brave those for the comfort of his warm bed. Perhaps Estonia might be in Latvia's room, willing to play a few rounds of preferans...

As he was thinking this, he found himself in front of a window. The curtains were tucked back behind the arch and the light spilled over into a bare, secluded patch of garden a few feet below. An idea struck him- something daring- incomprehensibly stupid- but brilliant if he didn't think about it too much.

He flipped open the latch and, checking both sides of the corridor to make sure no one would notice, climbed over the windowsill- out the window, and into the night.

It was cold, though not unbearably so for November. He shrugged off the wool greatcoat and let it drop like an old skin. Another stupid idea, the sensible voice in the back of his head sighed wistfully. Well, have it your way and freeze if you wish...

Lithuania did not pay his heed to his logic. This was something far more important. He took a step forward. He spread out his arms, feeling nothing but snowflakes and air. He spun around, grinning. Feeling rebellious, he swung back his left leg as far as he could and drove his boot into the brilliant snow, laughing with delight at the explosion it caused. He was free again, free- and it was beautiful and illicit and everything he had ever taken for granted and exactly how he remembered freedom to be...

It was so easy if he just closed his eyes to the windows and the distant walls and political treaties hemming him in. Somewhere else there were parties and gossip and intrigues- but here, standing on a little bit of earth which he called his own by merit of there being no one to contradict him- there was peace.

With no particular destination in mind, he started to run, hugging the evergreen trees, ducking beneath windows as if he were conducting a raid though, in truth, he no longer cared if anyone saw him. The sky was all his- it was the same sky that looked down over the Nemunas river and the cathedral in Vilnius and there were so many stars and the night was so clear…

And he stopped.

A great arched window, slick glass, dimly lit from the inside, was set before him. The curtains were slightly parted so that he had a glimpse of the building's interior. It was the corridor outside of his room.

The adrenaline, the heat in his face, had begun to wear off. The snow had started to settle a little more thickly in his hair. And yet, all he felt was an immense contentment at finding himself, for the very first time, looking in rather than out. There was the familiar mahogany door and the room that others had decided he could use for the time being. It wasn't his, and it wasn't home, but it was a quiet place and here, he had freedom to come and go as he pleased.

He snapped a twig off some stunted shrub growing nearby and worked the flat edge between the windowpanes until he'd found the latch. It responded with a simple click; he drew apart the thick panes of glass, found a foothold in one of the bricks, and heaved himself over the windowsill with as much ease as he once might have mounted a warhorse.

He grinned, shaking melt water out of his hair, kicking off his boots so that they hit the wall and skidded across the floor. There were probably still forms and letters waiting for him on his desk, but he could ignore those tonight.

"Lithuania? Is that you?"

Standing a few feet away from him, wearing a slack-jawed expression and holding what appeared to be a bottle of wine, was Russia. "Toris, how- what are you doing?"

"Ah." But then, did he really have to answer to him? Lithuania smiled. "I... decided to get some fresh air."

"Without shoes? Without a coat?" Russia looked horrified.

"My shoes are right there," Lithuania replied, pointing to them with his foot, though that said nothing at all about the coat. He set himself down on the floor and closed the windows behind him as though nothing had passed. "And... what are you doing here, _gospodin_?"

"Ahm." Russia met his gaze for scarcely more than a second before looking away. "I was looking for you... We don't have the chance to see each as much as I had hoped..." he held up the wine almost hesitantly. "Would you like to share a drink with me, Toris?"

And why not? It seemed as though he had shed caution many lifetimes ago. Lithuania nodded a 'yes'.

Inside his shirt was a small golden crucifix and a heavy brass key; he pulled out the latter and opened the door, motioning for the other nation to follow him in.

The boots were picked up only to be unceremoniously dumped by the fireplace. Flint and profanity, an ancient pagan rite in itself, managed to revive the dead embers.

A fat log was added, and prodded, until it began to catch fire. A flat-topped wooden trunk at the foot of the bed was cleared of its papers.

And, somehow, Lithuania managed to produce a pair of battered old cups- one of which still smelled strongly of this morning's tea. They took their seats- Lithuania in his chair and Russia on Lithuania's bed since there was no second chair to offer him. Not that he seemed to mind this arrangement, at all.

White wine, a good ten years of age. Russia poured him a cup and then one for himself. The drink had a sweet, heady smell to it like the air before a summer storm, with its low bearing clouds and its sleek maritime winds. And all of it seemed so out of place.

Lithuania drank without really tasting; it wasn't bad, although homemade lager was more to his taste. It was the lingering taste of euphoria, more than anything, that satisfied him; a strange sort of delight with the odd looks that Russia gave him over the rim of his cup. He was quite content not to start up a conversation.

Russia, however, seemed to have something more on his mind. He picked at the faded paint on the cup's handle. "Toris?"

"Taip,"

"I'm sorry."

Lithuania was given a pause. "Sorry for what?"

"I forced you to attend those idiotic parties with me, and I couldn't even treat you as a proper guest. And... I hoped I might make up for that. And be with you for an evening." He smiled hopefully.

"I'm not angry." Lithuania shrugged. He gave the burning log another nudge with the poker; it was far too cold in this room for his liking. "But... isn't that were you should be tonight?" he wondered out loud. "At Tsarina Elizabeta's soiree?"

Russia's pained expression was all the answer he needed. Truly, he had a soft spot for Alexander's charming, demure little wife, who was as uncomfortable at large social gathering as he himself was. It was the Tsar he was avoiding, playing for time.

"I know he will punish me but I do not care." Russia hiccuped. "He's so overbearing..."

Lithuania just barely stifled a laugh. "He is your emperor. He's supposed to be overbearing- it's... part of the job I suppose." They regressed into simple silence, not so much at a loss for things to say as a reason to say them.

"What? Why do you look at me like that, _gospodin_?"

"You're different, Toris. And familiar, also, I think."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," Lithuania murmured, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"You're so..." Russia sighed, spreading his arms across Lithuania's bed, and bringing them back under his chin. "So... happy right now. Rather bold. The way you used to be when I was a child. You look like my knight,"

A faint flash of heat; Lithuania's hand automatically went to his face. It must have been his body acclimating to the warmth after being outside for do long. Surely, it must have been that.

Restless, it seemed, the empire rolled over. "You haven't been that way lately, Lithuania. You seem so... distant. An' a bit melancholy. For a long time, and I never really knew why." His head lolled from side to side, drowsily. "But I can see you smiling! Smiling... Aren't you smiling? Please, tell me you are... I'm upside-down, Toris! It's difficult to tell, upside down~!"

"I'm..." Lithuania's fingers brushed the corners of his mouth.

He _was_ smiling.

"...yes. I am smiling."

Russia answered with a sleepy grin of his own. "You have a really nice, lovely smile,"

"Th-ank you. I-"

"Most welcome,"

"-think the hour is getting a bit late, sir." He wasn't sure if it was the wine or the exertion that was weighing so heavily on his eyelids and the back of his neck. Now, more than anything, he wanted his warm, comfortable bed and the thick, heavy wool blankets which apparently appealed to Russia as much as they did to him. He cleared his throat. "Sir...?"

"Nn."

"I think the wine might have been somewhat strong..." Ah, how to phrase it politely. "And... you seem to be falling asleep, and I don't think I would be able to... carry you if you do."

"Mmn-hmm."

"Sir?"

"_Not 'sir',_" he heard Russia mumble. "Just. Russia." And then he was gone, elsewhere, in some dimly-lit corridor of sweet wine and slumber where Lithuania's voice was not likely to reach him. It began to dawn on Lithuania that their had been a very strong drink indeed. Half of the bottle had gone, and his compact little bedchamber was delightfully warm. Setting his cup down beside the boots and the fireplace poker, Lithuania found his way to the edge of the bed. _His_ bed, he thought indignantly to himself, remembering how he'd had to elbow for room back when he shared a sleeping pallet with Poland and not particularly keen on repeating the experience here, now.

Still. It was his bed. And maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was that same irrational little desire of his to rebel, but he lay down, settled in beside Russia, nudging him aside to make room. It wasn't so terrible, really; Russia was soft, Russia was warm. It wasn't unknown for soldiers to huddle together to conserve warmth, Lithuania reasoned, meticulously preparing his excuse, neglecting to acknowledge that they were hardly freezing outside of a military outpost. But the willingness to suspend disbelief was just so appealing.

What was that old saying about wine making life simpler? Or was it more honest? Lithuania honestly could not remember. He tugged one of the thick blankets over them both. "G'night... Russia." he yawned. He did not expect an answer, but the low hum of Russia's breathing, the softly-flickering fire, the muffled sounds of the wind blowing over the courtyard; all seemed to acknowledge his sentiment.

* * *

**A/N: **My god. This. Finally finished after a full year and a half since I began writing it.


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